


high on a pleasure wheel

by brokendrums



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, M/M, Married-In-Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums/pseuds/brokendrums
Summary: Niall wakes up the morning after the Billboard Awards married to Harry. Too hungover to face the media storm, he takes up Harry’s offer to drive him home to LA.





	high on a pleasure wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Eagles - Chug All Night.
> 
> This was originally for the [married in vegas fic fest](https://marriedinvegasfest.tumblr.com/) but strayed a little too much from the trope and turned into a bit more of a roadtrippy fic. I blame this on the fact you can watch all sorts of time lapses of Route 66 on Youtube. Couple this with my need to be factually accurate meant that it became a little more geographical survey than fic so anyone with intimate knowledge of Route 66 please ignore that I skipped a chunk of it out. 
> 
> All my thanks to [ littlecather ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlecather) and [ balefully ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully) for reading through previous versions of this and offering wonderful, insightful comments! 
> 
> Please note that this was largely written in May just after Harry's album had been released and before Niall's was even on the radar yet.

It’s only a few seconds but there’s no doubt what it is. 

Niall thumbs back again, watches it over. 

The garish pink lights smear with how much his hand is shaking before the video focuses on Harry’s hand, sliding up the arm of his ridiculous pastel mint suit. It catches his blinding smile, the plastic crown on his head crooked. Over Harry’s shoulder, in bright, glaring neon, are three bells. 

Niall closes his eyes over another wave of nausea, sees the sign behind his eyelids. 

**Chapel of the Bells**

**World Famous. _WEDDINGS_**.

He hasn’t mustered up the courage to watch it with the sound yet. Knows that he doesn’t want to feel another wave of embarrassment at the sound of his slurred voice. 

Or the sound of Harry’s. 

He spits into the toilet bowl -- located handily to his left -- and groans to himself. 

He’d woken sprawled out on the floor of a hotel room and barely even conscious. His phone had been jammed under his cheek, buzzing against his ear long enough to wake him. His back aches from the hard floor, the carpet's worn pattern ingrained on his cheek. 

He feels like death warmed up, his insides finally deciding to say no to the cocktail of champagne and vodka and whiskey and whatever-the-fuck-else he was drinking last night. He has vague memories of throwing up too, of cool hands on his forehead, of a glass being shoved back into his grip. Of cheering and a round of Jägerbombs appearing at his elbow. 

Niall retches, watches through bleary eyes as yellow bile slides down the side of the pristine toilet. His phone buzzes again with another notification. 

He has no one else to blame except himself. In his wisdom, drunk Niall apparently doesn’t realise the difference between posting an Instagram story privately or onto his public profile. Or, he didn’t care. In any case, it’s there. For the whole world to see. 

He glances down at his phone again -- the screen has dimmed but Harry’s smile is still blinding -- and clicks it off. The metal feels warm, the screen jarring a moment before it goes black. His entire system is sluggish with the amount of notifications he’s getting. 

It makes no sense to try and delete it. It won’t make any difference. 

He throws it into the folds of the towel he’s sitting on. He can only deal with one thing at a time and his hangover is taking precedence. 

This is possibly the lowest point in his life, Niall thinks, lying naked, damp, and cold on a bathroom floor in the Wynn’s most expensive suite with the world imploding inside his phone an arm's-length away. 

Niall waits a few more moments before he gets up, making sure he’s not gonna heave again. The bathroom is quiet -- the hum of the extractor fan, the trickle of water from the shower head where he hasn’t turned it off properly, the faint but incessant ping of another phone in the bedroom. 

It reminds him who he’d left in there. 

He’d woken to Harry’s breath on his face, his body pressed close enough that they were sweating. 

Niall wobbles, his head spinning enough that he has to grip onto the toilet seat to steady himself. He brushes his teeth half-heartedly, just enough to get the stale taste out, and spends longer than he needs to swilling water around his dry mouth.

He can hardly look at his face in the mirror when he wipes the condensation off it. His skin is pale, his eyes red and bloodshot. His shower hasn’t done him much good except turn his shoulders slightly pink and make his hair drip wet down his cheeks.

He grabs the other towel off the rail to pull around his waist and unsnicks the lock on the door. It feels outrageously loud. 

“Thought you’d escaped out the window,” Harry says, his voice like he’s swallowed hot coals. 

Niall hesitates. “Thought about it.”

Harry snorts softly and Niall finds the courage to glance up at him. He’s made it to the bed, the duvet still crumpled on the floor where they had slept. He’s been modest enough to drag a sheet over his lap but it’s barely covering anything. Niall can see the shadow of his pubic hair and he glances away quickly, aims for his face instead. His lips look chapped and there’s a red mark on his collarbone. 

Niall feels hot. He can’t meet his eyes.

He walks over to the suitcase by the overstuffed armchair and empty mini bar. It’s his. Niall’s never been happier that they’ve ended up back at his hotel room and not Harry’s. 

From the corner of his eye he can see Harry get up, the sheet slipping as he stands, his bare arse on show. 

“What the hell is going on?” Harry murmurs, lifting his phone and unlocking it. “Sounds as if the world is ending.” Niall winces, pulling on a pair of boxers over his damp skin. “Niall?” 

“Um,” Niall says into his luggage, his hands searching for a clean t-shirt. Maybe if he just ignores him, he’ll go away.

Harry plays it with the sound and it makes Niall want to climb right the way into his suitcase. He can hear his voice, a choked off ‘yeeeooo’ and then over the muffled sound of the wind, Harry humming _The Wedding March_.

“Oh,” Harry says quietly. Niall drags a t-shirt over his head and the sound of the video looping and playing again is muffled. For a blissful moment, Niall imagines himself someplace else.

Harry’s laughing when Niall pops his head through his t-shirt. 

“It’s not funny,” Niall moans, turning round to look at him. He’s standing by the bed, his phone in his hand and still completely naked.

“It’s hilarious,” Harry corrects him, his face blotchy and red from his own hangover but his mouth wide as he laughs again. Niall can’t stop glancing down to his dick. 

Niall’s head pulses and he turns away to find his shoes. His suit from last night is strewn across the floor. The clock on the desk tells him that they’ve missed checkout and that it’s already early afternoon. 

“Christ,” Niall mutters to himself, trying to remember his flight time. He has no idea where Willie is or why he hasn’t come battering at the door yet. Some of the messages on his phone are probably from him but it’s still in the bathroom. 

Niall sits down on the edge of the bed, presses his forehead to his palm. His neck aches, everything aches. 

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, his voice rough but full of mirth. “This is not the worst thing to ever happen to us.”

Niall snorts. “No?” He lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at where Harry is _still_ standing in the nude. 

Harry gives him a pointed stare. “When we were in the band there were far worse videos--”

“And we’re not in the band anymore!” Niall snaps, feeling a little bit hysterical. “I see you for the first time in fucking months and apparently we get _married!_ ”

Harry’s face goes blank. He drops the hand with his phone down, covers some of his junk with it. 

“You don’t remember?” Harry asks, his eyes widening. 

“Of course I fucking don’t,” Niall shouts, his fuse finally fraying. He’s starting to feel panicky, that sick feeling rising to the back of his throat again. “I was clearly off my face. I wouldn’t have fucking _married_ you if I’d been in any way _in my right mind_.”

Niall can’t look at Harry, turns back around so he’s facing forward. He knows he has a face on him. 

“It’s like the fucking Hangover,” Niall says and follows it with a laugh. He sounds a little hysterical. “Watch out for a bloody tiger.”

“I think that’s a bit fucking cliché,” Harry snaps, his voice raw. Niall hardly remembers what it’s like to have Harry be angry at him, it hasn’t happened in that long. “And you were pretty damn happy to see me last night so don’t go around acting as if this is all _my_ fault!”

Niall turns to look at him, opening his mouth to protest. His vision swims a little bit. “I didn’t --”

Harry’s still looking at him, something a little wounded in his expression. He raises an eyebrow in a challenge. 

Niall chickens out. He always does. That’s probably what got them in this mess to begin with. Half way up the aisle and Niall’s too scared to call it all off. “What time’s your flight?”

Harry blinks at the change in topic. There’s a pause between them, just the two of them breathing. It’s nearly calm -- the eye of the storm. “I’m driving.”

“Driving?” Niall asks, his voice lifting incredulously. “Why the fuck are you driving?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s not that long,” Harry says, looking away the way he does whenever someone questions him on something he really wants to do. It makes him look nearly bashful. Niall finds himself fighting a smile, it’s so familiar. “Thought it would be nice. Relaxing.”

Niall rolls his eyes and collapses into the pillows that are still on the bed. His entire body feels like it’s finally giving up on him. It’s been a good twenty-three years but now’s the end of the road.

He watches as Harry walks around the hotel room and helps himself to a t-shirt out of Niall’s suitcase. He gives it a cursory sniff before pulling it over his head. It looks a bit bizarre on him, too stretched across his skin but it might be just the way Niall hasn’t seen Harry in his clothes in a long time. 

He ponders for a moment, staring at the open suitcase. He’s still naked from the waist down. 

“Fucking hell,” Niall snorts when Harry stoops to pull on the rose adorned mint trousers he’d been wearing last night. He hadn’t even been wearing a shirt with it, the blazer lapels cutting across his chest. Niall had stared at him when they had met just inside the main door. Niall was sweating from the red carpet but Harry had looked completely at ease, hair trailing down from his bellybutton and disappearing into his fancy trousers. 

Now, standing before him in the shade of the hotel room and not the glittery lights of the red carpet, the suit doesn’t look any more demure. Harry grins at him, his eyes going soft. His hair is sticking up in all directions, his hand pulling a tuft of it and it stands tall. It’s a weird in-between stage again, trimmed and growing, trimmed and growing again. 

“Style icon,” Harry mutters. “Just remember that.” 

Niall hums, throws a hand up over his eyes. He still feels like death and it’s marginally better in the dull shade his hand offers. He could definitely consider just buying another night in the hotel and crawling back into bed. 

Harry rummages about in his suitcase some more, finishing getting dressed. Niall hears the spray of his deodorant, Harry disappearing off to brush his teeth, the flap of Niall’s suit trousers as Harry shakes them out and packs them away. 

Niall doesn’t move. Doesn’t think he can. Every time he thinks about last night, he gets a paralysing roll of dread. The Fear. 

“Do -” Harry starts. Niall opens an eye and stares at the white ceiling above him. Harry’s pulled the curtains open so the room is nearly unbearably bright. 

Niall hums in response so Harry knows he hasn’t actually kicked the bucket. 

“Do you want a lift?”

Niall hesitates. He shouldn’t. There’s a plane somewhere on a blistering Nevada airstrip waiting for him along with his disgruntled and probably hungover team. 

“I have a flight booked.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Okay, then.”

Niall can’t place his tone. It’s slow and blank and trying to sound like nothing at all. He’s probably imagining the disappointment in it. 

The thing is, a year or two ago, Niall would’ve jumped at the chance to spend more time with Harry. To feel all of Harry’s attention on him, to have him all to himself. 

Five years and he would’ve laughed at the married thing too. They both would have, both of them so unaware of what was in store for them. Unaware of how it would end up.

But now, the part of him that just wants Harry to fuck off so they never have to deal with it ever again is nearly winning over.

Fucking _married_. They’ve drank a glass or two too much free champagne and ruined their careers in one fell swoop. 

Niall feels sick again. 

Niall opens his eyes, watching Harry shove his feet into a pair of velvet loafers. His mouth turns up when he sees Niall, his dimple pushing in. He needs to wash his face, needs to wash his hair, but he zips up Niall’s suitcase and nods to the door. 

Even though Niall’s grown up, there’s always that part of him that will selfishly win over when it comes to Harry. 

And Harry knows it. 

“Coming?” he asks gently, his smile growing. He holds a hand out, coaxing Niall up off the bed with his fingers curled around Niall’s wrist. 

Niall feels a smidge of guilt at the state they’re leaving the hotel room in, but it ebbs away as Harry squeezes his hand and pulls him out into the hallway. 

Niall blinks at the artificial light in the sleek windowless corridor. They don’t rent out the entire floor anymore, so the press of Harry’s hand against his makes panic flare in his gut but he doesn’t let go -- their hands going sticky with how hot they’re both running -- until the elevator doors slide open into the swish lobby. 

Harry sticks close to him as Niall checks out. The concierge tells him that the rest of the boys have gone already and Niall swallows down the anxiety to unlock his phone again. 

“Everything okay?” Harry asks him, standing in the shade of a huge potted palm tree that’s in the middle of the foyer. He’s got Niall’s suitcase by his knee, his hip cocked so his bone juts out. The jacket of his suit is strewn on top of the soil. Niall stares at it. It’s probably worth ten grand alone. 

“Just letting them know I haven’t been kidnapped,” Niall tells him, shooting a text off into the Whatsapp group and not bothering to wait around to see if they see it. It’s full of messages already and Niall feels queasy even thinking about them. The lads from the band are good craic but he can’t help feel a bit fucking unprofessional ditching them to hang off Harry’s arm all night. 

He must’ve looked desperate. 

He clicks his phone shut again, shoving it in the pocket of his shorts. 

He knows this is probably making it worse -- riding off into the sunset with Harry to forget about how much they fucked up but he really doesn’t want to deal with it yet. He can’t handle the disappointment from his team -- Niall’s supposed to have always been the dependable one. The one to not fuck it up. They’ve went out on a limb to support him this year and Niall’s just pissed all over it.

Harry gives him a long look, like he’s maybe contemplating the same thing. Niall looks away. Harry always manages to land on his feet. He’ll probably get a Grammy out of it. 

They manage to get the car park without ever having to step outside and Niall’s glad, the air conditioning the only thing that’s stopping him from sweating out of his skin. 

“Is this a new car?” Niall asks as Harry comes to a stop beside a gleaming navy blue BMW Roadster. He wonders if the valet service gave the car a quick wipe over because he’s sure that the car wouldn’t look that shiny if he drove it here from LA. 

Harry gives a noncommittal shrug and lugs Niall’s suitcase into the tiny boot. “1956 limited edition 507,” he says as he slides behind the wheel. “And I’m not telling you how much she cost because it’s not even funny.”

The car is tiny and it’s disorientating when Niall sinks into the seat. The entirety of the inside is in soft cream leather and Niall feels like he’s nearly sitting on the ground as Harry fires up the engine with a soft purr. 

Harry turns and waggles his eyebrows at Niall before he pulls out of the parking space. “Elvis had two.”

“Fuck,” Niall mutters as the sun hits him directly in the face. Classic car or not, Niall would kill for some AC. 

Harry chuckles softly. “It’ll be better once we’re going. The breeze in our hair, the open road under our feet, the world our oyster!”

“Are you not going the opposite way?” Niall asks warily once they’re easing out of town. Niall stares longingly at the sign that says _Los Angeles_ , his stomach dropping as Harry ignores it. 

Traffic’s slow, creeping through the shining and gaudy signs that look bleached out in daylight. Even under the sepia tint of his lenses, the looming heights of the Palms and Belagio and Caesar’s Palace look a little sad. 

Harry looks at him sideways, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair for the time being. They’re not doing a good job of being inconspicuous -- people walking down the pavement by the side of their car going at a faster speed, turning to look as they creep by. 

Niall slides down further in his seat but it doesn’t do much. His knees hit the front dash, the inside of the car too cramped. 

“We’re doing a little detour,” Harry says, sounding guilty. “The scenic route.”

“Scenic route?” Niall repeats to make sure he heard him right. “Is it not all just desert? We’ve drove it before?”

Harry shakes his head. “I wanted to do the Mother Road. Thought it would be silly to miss the chance. I was running late the way here so I had to just take the interstate. Gotta try out this baby somehow.”

“The Mother Road?” Niall doesn’t even want to ask. He had forgotten how whimsically romantic Harry could get about the smallest things. It’s annoying really. 

Harry makes a show of looking offended and goes hunting in the tight space between their seats for his phone. His rings knock on the casing of Niall’s seatbelt, his arm brushing against his thigh as he pulls his phone out awkwardly. Niall catches a glimpse of him scrolling and then the album artwork for The Rolling Stones’ first record. 

Some of the clapping gets lost in the noise around them but Niall can make out the drum beat when he waves the phone closer to him. 

“Well if you ever plan on driving out west!” Harry starts to sing along. He gives Niall an exaggerated leer and when they stop at a red light, he lifts both hands in the air and throws them in front of him like Mick Jagger. The reach of them extends high above the glass windscreen. 

“Do you plan on doing your Jagger impression the entire way?” Niall asks but can’t quite stop himself from smiling. 

Harry’s smile twists into something more his own. “Will that be a deal breaker?”

“I might just get out here,” Niall plays along. “Hitch a ride. Find a Greyhound.”

The light changes and Harry’s back to keeping his eyes on the road, his mouth turned up and his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. 

Niall turns away, looks out at the city as it slips into winding interstate. The sky is crystal blue, clear and spreading out far in front of him. Wind roars past his ears so he can’t hear if Harry’s trying to make conversation. He can’t even hear the music anymore, just the vibrations of it on the dashboard in front of him if he sets his palm to it. 

It feels good to blow the cobwebs out of his head. He’s been cooped up in a studio for a few weeks, frustrated over a few of the last songs for the album. He sighs, rolls his neck to get rid of some of the tension.

It’s hard having the final word on everything. Niall had been looking forward to it, being the only one he was writing for, the only one he had to please but he finds it hard to trust anyone else’s opinion, longing instead for a critique from someone who knows him better. It’s a privilege to be working with some of the best producers in the business but it brings it’s own set of problems. 

Niall turns his head and glances at Harry again. He’s relaxed back into the cream leather, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on his thigh, tapping out some sort of rhythm. Niall doesn’t think he can hear the music either, and he watches Harry’s hands for a moment, the bounce of his fingertips, the press of them into the soft material of his trousers, the gleam of his rings in the sun as it scorches above them. 

Harry turns his head. Catches him. 

The tendons on Niall’s neck ache when he snaps his gaze back to the road but he sees Harry’s smirk anyway. 

Niall falls asleep just after the Hoover Dam. The monotony of the motorway reminding him of long trips on the bus back before they started to fly everywhere. Harry would sometimes sprawl out with him on the sofas in the back, tunes playing softly from his phone on the floor between them. The others would be asleep or on the other bus or wherever-the-fuck and they’d never be disturbed. 

Niall liked it, the ringing in his ears giving him a headache and Harry creating a quiet space for them. He’d never really speak unless Niall asked something and they’d sit, just the two of them, in comfortable silence until they slipped off to sleep. 

It was nice to do once in awhile. Niall hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it. 

He wakes as the car pulls to a slightly jerking stop. Niall opens his eyes, blinks away the sun and pushes his glasses back up his nose where they’ve slipped down. He feels groggy and sun-warm. He could happily go back to sleep but the empty driver’s seat forces him to wake up properly. 

Harry’s on his side of the car, his arm outstretched as he takes a photo of an old water tower with _Welcome to Kingman! Heart of Historic Route 66_ emblazoned across it. 

It takes Niall a few moments to orientate himself. The town looks like any other, a steady stream of traffic as they approach lights at the end of the street, a woman pushing a pram across the road. There’s a few token shrubs dotted down the pavement and then it’s blue sky, flat ground and the abrupt outline of the mountains off in the distance. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Harry says, looking down at him from outside the car. “I thought you might miss it.”

“Miss it?” Niall asks, clearing his throat. It feels like he’s swallowed razorblades, the constant rush of air into his open mouth while he slept wreaking havoc with his throat. 

Harry smiles and walks around to the driver’s side. “You’ll see.”

He doesn’t say anything else, pulling back out onto the road and taking a turn off to the right of the freeway. 

The road is noticeably more empty, stretching out into the distance once they start pulling away from town. Niall shifts, his back sticking to the leather seats. He groans, his t-shirt clinging to him where it’s rucked up at the back. 

The sun is nearly blinding, his forehead feeling hot. Harry’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the wind brushing the strands of hair out of his face and rippling. 

They’re quiet for a few miles, Niall still waking himself up. He wants a fresh bottle of water, the one between his thighs gone lukewarm and stale. 

“I didn’t expect to see you there last night,” Niall says, words slipping off his tongue. He sees the way Harry’s jaw tightens before he shrugs easily. 

“I was in LA,” he says, a little bit vaguely. 

Niall snorts. “I know you were. I seen a video of your show.”

Harry’s head turns and even though he’s wearing sunglasses, Niall can see the question in it. 

Niall can’t help sounding a little bitter. “It looked fucking amazing. How’d you get her to do it?”

Harry’s mouth turns up. “Are you jealous?”

Niall swallows down the swell of bitterness. He’s jealous beyond belief. He waits too long to respond and Harry reaches over and pats at his thigh. Niall jerks at the unexpectedness of it. 

“It was amazing,” Harry says, quieter this time. There’s no bravado in it, just humble awe. Niall bites his lip and tries to let the budding pride and happiness for him overtake the burning jealousy. 

Harry gives his knee a squeeze. “I still haven’t wrapped my head around it, to be honest. It’s been quite a week.”

Niall snorts and bats his fingers away. They’re creeping down to where he’s ticklish and he’d rather Harry kept his eyes on the road. The tarmac is cracked from the heat so it’s gone bumpy, their chairs juddering as they roll down the empty road. 

“Have you listened to the record?” Harry asks, the wind nearly whipping the question away. 

Niall rubs at the sweat under the bridge of his sunglasses. “Of course I have.”

He listened to it first through a set of earphones, his heart in his throat in case he didn’t like it. He’d made it through a few of the songs before he was called away. It wasn’t until he played it in the car, a cool evening breeze floating through the open window that he really _heard_ it. By the time he’d gotten to the last song, he was parked in his driveway, his eyes closed and throat sore, knuckles white in fists in his lap. 

Harry gives him this one shouldered shrug that looks awkward the way he’s folded into the car. For someone so confident in his music, he can get small about it sometimes. 

Niall watches the side of his face. Harry’s expression has gone blank but Niall can see the way he’s squeezing at the steering wheel again with his fingers. He’ll never ask so Niall gives in and tells him. 

“I liked it,” Niall says, putting every ounce of what he has left in his chest to make sure he sounds genuine. It feels like everyone and their mother has been asking if he likes it or not, his answers becoming rote. 

He tries not to think of how he’s probably fucked everything up by marrying Harry, the media storm will be ferocious. He presses his palm to his front pocket, the edges of his phone case digging into the top of his thigh near his groin. He supposes that Harry can spin it though, effortless in how he dodges all the headline scandals about him. 

Harry breaks into a bashful smile and Niall wonders if he’s worried about it at all. 

“Don’t think you have any issues with people loving it though,” Niall says with a laugh. The awards the night before was proof of that enough -- the audience couldn’t get enough of him. 

Niall closes his eyes. It had felt bizarre to sit and watch him on stage like that -- as a member of the audience and not as part of the performance. When _he’s_ performing, he doesn’t have space inside his chest and his head to think about how it must look to everyone else. He’s usually just buoyed up by the adrenaline and the nerves and the scream of the crowd. 

But Harry -- Niall smiles to himself -- Harry’d looked brilliant. Born for it. Right at home up there in a sheer shirt that showed off the faint outlines of his tattoos and half hidden behind one of the most beautiful guitars Niall’s ever seen. 

At the end, Harry had tilted his head forward in a shy bow, plectrum between his teeth and somehow found Niall in the second row, their eyes locking for the first time in months.

Niall opens his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s expression on the back of his eyelids -- the gentle look of contentment, the slight guilt in enjoying it so much, the roving search for approval. 

Niall had gotten to his feet, clapped until his palms were sore. 

“Do _you_ like it?” Niall asks him and it’s an entirely different question. 

Harry grins but Niall catches the hesitation in his answer, the way his eyebrows dip down a little.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice softer, more genuine. “It was different, y’know?”

Niall hums in response. He’s still working on his. Never happy, some of the people from the studio would say but Niall doesn’t want to release anything he’s not one hundred percent behind. He knows that Harry would understand that but he doesn’t bring it up, doesn’t want to linger on it too much. 

Refuses to compare.

“You get to really spend the time with the songs,” Harry chatters on, his voice rising as he gets more excited. “Really get to know them. Like at the start, I had no idea what it was going to sound like. Some of them would get grating, I’d hear them in my head when I settled down to sleep and I’d wake up and think -- no, that’s not me. That’s not what I sound like. And then you’d just strike gold and find the _one_. It was really nice to go through them like that and figure out what I wanted.”

Niall hums again. He gets it. But sometimes when he goes to bed they play on a loop in his head too. Niall will put in earphones to battle the irritation and listen to his voice, unpolished over the low strum of guitar in the demo. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. He’ll drag himself back out of bed again and to try and finally get that little bit right. The right chord. The right note. The right lyric. 

“It sounds like you,” Niall tells him over the rush of wind. “Really --”

Harry cuts him off, crowing in delight and reaching for his phone again. Niall startles, worried that the car is going to swerve but Harry keeps the wheel steady. 

“Here we go, Niall!” Harry yelps, thumbing his phone open and the song cuts out abruptly, the guitars starting up again. 

They pass a rusting sign, the paint sunbleached away so the shining metal of the sign catches the sharp sun. The wheels roll over a roadsign etched into the softened tarmac, the paint white and bright against the dusty black road. It’s faded but the _Route 66_ is visible as they race over it.

“Wha--” Niall starts to ask but Harry lifts his hands into the air and throws his head back. 

“GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE SIX-TY SIX!”

*

About ten minutes later, Niall decides he fucking hates Route 66. 

The judder of the car over the cracked, deep crevices where the tarmac rolls up over a bump in the land makes his teeth ache. His muscles clench on every pothole, his arse bouncing up off the seat, bare skin ripping where it’s stuck to the leather. 

Heat shimmers ahead of him. Niall closes his eyes against it, feeling woozy.

It’s hard to breathe at times with the air blowing at them in all directions but Harry keeps his playlist on, humming loud enough to make Niall want to hum too. 

The _Roy’s_ sign is huge, emerging from the horizon a mile or two back with nothing on the flat land obstructing it. Niall stares at it until it grows bigger and bigger in his eyeline.

“Come on,” Harry says, pulling over at the side of the road. 

“What are we doing?” Niall asks, groggy with lying so still for so long. 

Harry beams at him, his dimples deep. Niall feels his stomach flip and he swallows it down, looking away from his bright face towards the old diner. 

There’s a row of little white houses -- some sort of accommodation that looks slightly bizarre in the barren surroundings -- and not much else.

“Great, I’m starving.”

Harry pushes his sunglasses up over his face and gives him a guilty frown. “I think it’s still mostly abandoned.”

Niall stares at him across the open top of the car. His stomach gives another lurch as Harry stretches, his expression still edging on guilty as his shirt rides up his stomach. 

“I’ll buy you a soda pop,” Harry says in an exaggerated accent, grinning at him again. His hair is sticking up more than usual -- wind ruffled and half caught in his glasses -- and he looks endearingly sweet as he turns towards the sign. “But first, photographs!”

Niall follows him, feeling less than enthusiastic as Harry sets him under the huge _Roy’s_ sign. Harry laughs at Niall’s expression, bending down on one knee to get the entire sign in frame. He shoots him a thumbs up when he’s done, staying down on one knee to flick through his phone. Niall walks towards him and it’s only when Harry’s glancing up at him does he realise, with a churning stomach, the situation they’re in. 

Harry laughs it off, his hand coming up to tug on his hair so Niall can see he’s at least a little bit rattled. “How romantic,” he mumbles, climbing back onto his feet again. There’s a dusty oval mark on his knee from the dirt carpark but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, his hand curled over his phone to shade it so he can see the photos properly. 

They should talk about it. The great big elephant in the tiny car between them but Niall’s mouth is too dry and he’s a step behind Harry as he follows him across the carpark. 

Harry holds true to his promise and buys him a Coke. It’s cold, the condensation wiping off on his palm. Niall drinks half of it in one go so he doesn’t have to speak to Harry. 

He’s still hovering nervously on the edge of Niall’s vision and Niall can feel his eyes on him every so often, flitting away when Niall looks up. 

“This feels proper, you know?” Harry asks, leaning in close to him. Niall feels the heat radiate off his skin, the cuffs of Niall’s t-shirt stretching across his bicep as he brings the bottle up to his mouth again. Niall watches him swallow, his own tongue darting out to lick at the sticky sweetness on the rim of his bottle. 

“Like a real road trip?” Niall asks, humouring him. 

Harry smiles, delighted. “A proper road trip, yes, Niall. Out across the dusty American desert. Tracing the steps of all those people who made it out west with just the clothes on their backs. Maybe they had a little bag on the end of a stick. Doesn’t it make you _feel_ something?”

Niall snorts. Harry’s eyes dart down to look at Niall’s mouth and Niall takes his time taking another drink, makes a show of it. 

“Yeah,” he says, Harry’s eyes brightening. “Sunburnt.”

Harry rolls his eyes, his mouth betraying him as it turns up into a helpless smile. “A marker of a successful trip. A face that’s seen some stories.”

Harry leans forward, slings an arm around Niall’s neck so they’re pressed in close. He turns them towards the horizon -- Niall can’t see anything except empty desert stretching off towards far off mountains, the blue sky crisp around the blazing sun. 

Harry outstretches his hand. “This road has seen some stories.”

Niall snorts so hard that the last gulp of his Coke bubbles up the back of his throat. “Come on, cowboy. Maybe we can actually make it home before dark.”

Harry sticks to the route when he takes off again, twisting around tight corners and over ramps and train lines sunken into the road. They pass a conglomeration of trucks, all of them gleaming in the sun and swerve onto the road again. 

The highway stretches on along beside them, the cars zooming off in front of them a few metres to Niall’s left. Niall stares after them longingly. Noisy. _Fast_.

“I won’t tell anyone if you just go the proper way, y’know,” Niall tells him as they bounce over another crack in the road. 

Harry gives him a blinding grin, his teeth glinting. All he needs is a Stetson and a piece of grass and he’d be sorted. 

Eventually, the road winds away from the interstate, the whoosh of the cars dissipating in the wind behind them and it’s back to just being them. 

The road bounces, twists and turns that have Harry leaning into them. Niall presses his shoulder to the edge of the door where the window should be and wonders why -- the ground around them is barren, bristly and brittle plants twisting out of cracks in the dusty ground, he doesn’t see the issue in just drawing the road straight. 

Niall sighs, lets his hand slide over the open window of the door. The metal is hot to the touch but the whip of wind is nice through his fingertips. 

“You’ll lose a hand,” Harry warns him, sitting a little straighter as they rattle towards the town. 

Niall snorts, letting his glasses slide down his nose. 

Everything looks sundrenched when he opens his eyes, too bright and bleached. He opens his eyes wide to stave off the feeling of squinting, Harry swerving out of the way of a rough patch where the road has given away to stone and gravel. 

“Ow!” Niall yelps, his hand snapping over his eye. 

The car jolts as Harry brakes, Niall’s back coming away from the leather stickily as momentum propels him forward. He braces his other hand in front of him so he doesn’t go flying into the dashboard.

His eye stings, his face smarting from whatever has hit him. He doesn’t want to open it, doesn’t want to take his hand away. 

“Are you okay?” Harry demands, his hand reaching across to grip at his shoulder. The car is still slowing down but he hasn’t stopped yet. They bounce over a pothole, the rest of Niall’s body lifting off the seat. Harry’s hand is twisting in the shoulder of Niall’s t-shirt, tugging him into the middle of the car as if it’ll make it easier to see him as they brake. 

“Yes,” Niall says, feeling a wave of panic swell in his gut. He hates when something like this happens -- anything with his eyes and his throat. His throat is obvious -- anything to do with his voice -- but his eyes. He swallows down the bitterness in his throat at the thought of fucking up his eye. 

He gingerly takes his hand away, eases his eye open. Harry’s going slow now, the car hissing and steaming in the heat. Niall can hardly feel the wind and it’s oppressive how hot it is without the breeze. 

He blinks, feels something dry catch on his eyelid but his vision is okay. He blinks again, stomach lurching at the thought of whatever is in there scratching at his eyeball. 

“Niall?” Harry asks, his fingers twist again, Niall’s collar pulling at his neck. 

“I’m fine,” Niall says and blinks again just to be sure. His eye is watering like mad, his vision blurring with it but he thinks it’s fine. He presses his fingers to his cheekbone, feels how his skin is roasting hot. “I’m okay,” he says, this time with more conviction. 

Harry squeezes his shoulder and accelerates again. “We’ll stop in the next town anyway. We’re nearly there and we can get some food. Petrol. We can have a look at it.”

“I’m fine,” Niall protests, closing his eye and still feeling the scrape of something caught along his waterline. 

Harry tuts. “Growing boys in the desert need to keep hydrated. We’re stopping.”

Harry accelerates again, throwing a furtive glance at Niall. Niall ignores him, trying to keep calm. He slides his sunglasses down again so Harry can’t see where he keeps his sore eye clamped shut, curls his fingers into the space between his thighs so he doesn’t poke and prod at it.

Harry drives carefully and not as fast as before. Niall tries to breathe through the muggy air, the sun feeling hotter as they bump along the road. 

“Nearly there,” Harry says over the music but Niall can tell he’s reassuring himself as much as Niall. 

Town is quite an overstatement Niall realises when Harry pulls in at the side of the road about a mile later. He parks close to a cracked wooden fence, a few post boxes nailed to them, lopsided. 

There’s a few more cars parked haphazardly along the verge of the road and in the flattened, stoney space beside the diner. The _Motel_ sign hangs a little tilted, the bright paint long since faded in the sun. 

“Come on,” Harry says, stepping out of the car and stretching. “This place is --”

“Iconic?” Niall guesses, stepping out of the car behind him. 

Harry flashes him the finger, his forehead crumpling slightly when he turns to look at Niall’s face. Niall swallows. He doesn’t know what his eye looks like so he just pulls his sunglasses down again, tries to ignore the itch.

Harry doesn’t bother pulling up the hood and Niall hopes he hasn’t got anything irreplaceable in the cab of the car. There’s always an air of wealthy aloofness to that -- leaving the hood down on an unattended car, as if anything inside can be replaced anyway. 

The interstate appears as soon as they turn the corner of the cafe and Niall takes in a breath, turning to look at the desolate landscape behind him. It’s bizarre how so many cars stream past compared to the empty road they’ve been on.

Niall gets a sense for the first time what it must have been like when it was built, to see the rest of the world fly by and the world as you know it to crumble into nothing around your feet. 

“Come on,” Harry says from up ahead, his sunglasses pushed onto the top of his head so his hair sticks up behind them. 

The door chimes as they cross the threshold, the diner all wood and slanted in on itself. It’s cooler inside, despite the open dividing wall into the kitchen. There’s hardly anyone there, just a person hunched over the end of the counter eating a hotdog and an aproned man and woman who smile widely from behind it. 

“Hello!” Harry crows, introducing himself and stepping forward with his arm outstretched. 

As Harry glides away to chit chat, Niall gets distracted by the decor. The walls are completely covered in fluttering pieces of paper, stickers, badges, little plaques and bigger ones that announce it’s the _historic famous Bagdad cafe!_. Flags and t-shirts are pinned to the ceiling, gravity pulling them down at the middle so it looks like they’re pockets of soft cushion. A row of pinned hats and snapbacks denote where the ceiling ends and the wall starts but there’s so much _stuff_ tacked across every surface that Niall has trouble working out how everything fits. 

Harry orders them burgers, charming the waitress as he stuffs a handful of notes into their tip jar. Niall drops onto a vinyl stool. He cracks his neck, gently prods his fingers at his eye again. 

It’s weeping still, fat, salty tears gathering at the corner of his eyelid. Niall pushes just below his eyelashes and feels how it’s squishy and swollen. He’d keep his glasses on if it didn’t make him look like a complete arsehole. 

“This place is amazing,” Harry mutters, trailing off to have a look around. Niall watches him, the way his shirt is sticking to the small of his back and how ridiculous he still looks in the suit trousers.

Last night, Niall had laughed when he seen him turn up suited and booted but with no shirt on. It had been funny until he had seen him, the lights dimmed and flashing blue and purple, the way his tattoos had stood out, the trail of hair barely there from his belly button and disappearing into his waistband.

Niall blinks, flashes of the night before coming back to him. He’d looked fucking unreal standing in front of him after all that time. Niall had to reach forward, his fingertips tracing his bare skin between the buttons of the jacket. 

Harry hadn’t even flinched, his smile growing. 

“Niall!” Harry calls from deeper into the diner. “Come and see _this_!”

Harry’s bent over an antique Meister upright. The frontboard has been taken off so Niall can see each and every hammer and pin. Niall gapes at it. It looks beautiful -- dusty and dirty but like it’s been plucked out of time itself. 

Harry grins at him over his shoulder, his t-shirt riding up as he leans over the rickety chair in front of it and presses a key. 

The sound sings out despite the bad acoustics in the diner. 

Harry makes a sound of delight and settles on the chair, the brittle wood groaning below him. It doesn’t look quite as old but it has seen a lot more wear. 

Harry plays a few keys, not quite a melody yet. Niall steps forward, drawn towards the piano. He presses a key, feels the pressure of it as it sinks down. 

Beside him, he can see Harry turn his head, no doubt peering up at him. “Here,” he says, shifting across the chair to make room for him. 

It barely looks strong enough to hold Harry, nevermind both of them so Niall keeps half his weight on his feet -- ready to jump off if the wood splinters -- and settles beside him. 

He plays something light, just to hear how tuned it is before he segues into something familiar he’s been working on for the album. The melody has been following him around for a while, something nagging at him now that he’s put the final line under the album. As if to say _you’re not finished yet_. 

Harry’s hands still, his fingers splayed across the keys but not pressing down enough for them to sound out. Niall’s hyper aware of his breathing, the slow rise of his shoulders, the way his bicep brushes against Niall’s arm as he plays. 

Niall moves his fingers, his tone soft as he dances his hand closer to the middle of the piano. He changes key seamlessly, his little finger brushing Harry’s hand. 

Harry shifts, his arm pressed up against Niall’s. He can feel how warm he is, both of them sweating even in the relative cool of the shade inside. 

Harry picks up the melody tentatively, playing the lower key. Niall smiles to himself, not taking his eyes off the piano. They learnt the same way -- by ear and only half seriously, never thinking they’d have the space to play the piano on their own projects one day. Niall wants to learn properly, a partially thought-out goal for the next year, but he’s happy with what he’s got now, his fingers stretching across the keys.

“That’s nice,” Harry says as they trail to an end, the ring of the final note still hanging in the air between them. “Is it --” he trails off, his fingers hovering awkwardly in front of him. 

Niall turns his head, catches Harry’s profile. He’s smiling, his jaw sharp and defined. 

“I dunno what it is yet,” Niall says, watching Harry’s red mouth as he licks over his bottom lip. “A work in progress.”

“A work in progress,” Harry repeats, his mouth moving like he’s testing the words out. He grins, leans forward an inch. “Well. I like it.”

Harry plays it again from memory, his fingers moving across the keys. It sounds a little different, something extra layered into it. Niall tilts his head, his eyes closing as he listens to the music. He tries to imagine it slotting into some of the things he’s written, any of the tracks that are lying abandoned on his hard drive. 

Harry finishes, his shoulder brushing against Niall’s again. Niall can feel his breath across his jaw and he tilts his head towards it, opens his eyes. Harry's face is close enough to kiss. 

When he blinks, a tear falls onto his cheek. Harry’s eyebrows arch, his eyes widening slightly and Niall can see the panic there even through the blurriness in his own eyes. 

Niall laughs, a little awkwardly and gets to his feet. He reaches out to steady himself on the old piano, his hand flat against the worn wood. He points at his eye, clamping it shut as it starts to water again. 

“I’m just going to fix this.”

The bathrooms are a tight squeeze. There’s graffiti all over the walls, scrawls of _Johnny was here_ and every other name under the sun. Niall blinks away the blurriness in his eyes and jams himself behind the men’s door. 

The sink doesn’t look the cleanest and Niall groans quietly to himself, blinking to try and produce more wetness and flush out his eye naturally. 

“Niall?”

Niall startles, hitting his head off the back of the door. “Ow, fuck! Harry!” he snaps, his fingers going to the back of his skull. 

“I just want to help,” Harry says, nearly a whine. 

Niall unlocks the door, glares at him through the gap. “It’s tiny in here.”

Harry bundles in anyway, squeezing into the space between Niall and the sink so they can jam the door closed again. Niall leans back awkwardly hoping he doesn’t end up landing on his arse in the open loo. Harry turns, fiddling with the lock, his bum pressing into Niall’s side. 

“Leave it,” Niall says, trying to squeeze into the space between the wall and the toilet to give him some room. 

Harry huffs, his eyebrows dipping into a frown. “Just in case someone else comes in.”

Niall glances up at him. There’s only a few inches between their faces. “Does it look like they’ll fit?”

Harry bites his lip, doesn’t laugh even though Niall can tell he wants to. Niall presses his back against the wall of the toilet and finally looks into the grimy mirror. Harry watches him intently, his eyes boring into Niall’s reflection. 

Niall’s eye is bloodshot and watering. It looks a little swollen but Niall can’t see anything in it as he presses closer to the mirror. He blinks a few times, bends over the grotty sink as if any grit is going to fall out like when he sometimes tips his shoes upside down. 

“Here,” Harry says after a few moments, reaching for his shoulder. His palm is hot and Niall breathes sharply through his nose, the sound loud in such an enclosed space. 

Harry smells of sweat and of heat and leather and wind and dust and last night’s booze but he’s leaning closer, his mouth wet. 

“C’mere,” he says softly, his hands reaching towards his face. His hands feel even bigger pressed against his cheeks and Niall sighs, giving into the instinctive urge to let his jaw tilt up. 

Harry’s mouth brushes over his and Niall fights the instinct to freeze. It feels bizarre to finally be here after all that time where this was what he wished for the most. He’d spent the past year and a half getting over that thought -- the absence of Harry in his life a swift aid to forgetting all the half-imagined scenarios that would lead to this. 

But he supposes last night -- even if he doesn’t remember it -- crossed that line for him. It’s been hanging over them all day, the weight of their wedding and whatever else they got up to. 

Harry’s mouth follows his, his lips bumping into Niall’s chin. Niall breathes through his mouth, his bottom lip scraping over Harry’s barely there stubble. 

“Niall,” Harry murmurs, his voice low and rough. Niall takes in another breath at the sound and then presses up against Harry’s mouth. 

Harry hums into the kiss, his mouth opening to lick across Niall’s bottom lip. He reaches up, cups around Niall’s jaw. Niall leans his weight into it and Harry grunts, kissing him harder. 

Niall’s hip knocks into the sink. It’s cold and a relief but Harry presses him harder, the lip of the porcelain digging into his side. They’re flush against each other, their hips aligning. 

Niall’s never kissed him sober before and it’s shocking how it doesn't feel awkward or clumsy. It feels like they’re well practised with each other. That they know what they like and how to get it. 

Niall groans, his back arching as Harry bends him further into the sink. His shoulder hits the mirror and Harry’s kissing him like he could climb right in. 

Niall twists his fingers in the cotton of Harry’s borrowed shirt, stretching it to pull him closer. Harry’s palm presses into his cheek, his fingers hooking behind his ear. He feels hot all over, sweat already feeling clammy at the nape of his neck, under the hem of his t-shirt. 

There’s a thump to the door, like a fist and then “Burgers are up, boys!”

Harry pulls away immediately, the back of his head hitting off the toilet door as he stares at Niall. Niall laughs at his dazed expression, trying not to feel too embarrassed at being caught. 

Harry gives him a heavy look before he pulls at the door handle, looming close to him as he tries to get it to swing open. Niall slides a hand over his hip to steady him, Harry’s breath hot on his cheek. 

It’s a pause. A to-be-continued. Niall’s heart thumps at the thought of it. 

There’s no way they’ll be able to hide it -- Harry’s stretched shirt, his red mouth and messy hair. Niall doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, his cheeks feeling hot as they edge their way out of the bathroom. 

Harry gives him a coy smile as he slides onto a stool at the counter. Niall ducks his head and tries not to laugh, feeling jittery as he takes the stool next to him. 

The burgers are good and Niall hadn’t realised how hungry he was, the grease doing wonders for his hangover. He thinks they’ve maybe got away with it, a car full of more tourists coming in and ordering half the menu. 

Niall shoves a few chips into his mouth just as the owner smiles serenely at them. 

“Thought maybe you boys had fallen in.”

*

They make it a few miles out of town before everything turns to shit.

The heat’s finally dying down as afternoon turns to evening, Niall’s face tight with a searing sunburn and Harry’s handsy, his fingers straying to grip Niall’s over the handbrake. 

The kiss had broken the dam between them all day, both of them giving into playful smiles and lingering touches. 

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Niall says, a laugh bubbling out of him. 

Harry’s grinning, Niall can see the way his eyes are crinkling through the gaps in his glasses. Harry lifts his hand up with him, tugging Niall’s arm out straight. His mouth is warm and wet when he brushes it over his knuckles. 

Niall’s stomach is fluttering enough that he misses the jugger of the car until it jolts, the exhaust kicking below them. Harry drops his hand, going to grip the wheel. It’s the first time he’s actually looked so alert in the driver’s seat. 

“What’s wrong?” Niall asks, dread sucking away any elated butterflies in his stomach. 

Harry’s mouth opens and he gapes for a few moments, his sunglasses sliding down the sweaty bridge of his nose.

Harry takes a few breaths before he throws his head back. “Fuck!”

*

“Do you forgive me yet?” Harry calls, three or four paces behind Niall. 

Niall doesn’t answer. Doesn’t turn round. If he turns around, he’ll say something he’ll regret. 

Harry trails after him, a hand flung out to thumb down any passing traffic. 

The road stretches on behind them.

Empty.

*

“Thank Christ,” Niall mutters as they climb over the verge and step foot onto the flat, smooth tarmac of the forecourt. The petrol station is busy with those drivers smart enough to fill up on petrol before hitting the highway. 

Niall heads for the shop, the lights starting to shine particularly bright as twilight approaches. A few of the drivers stare at them and Niall doesn’t want to know how red his face is. 

Inside is heavenly cool. Niall breathes a sigh of relief as he walks down the aisle towards the fridges. He buys two bottles of water and detours through the medicine aisle to pick up a bottle of after-sun lotion. 

By the time he makes to the till, Harry’s already there. 

He pushes his bottles beside Harry’s water -- just to be a dick -- and waits until they’re rung through. Harry gives him a sidelong glance but pays for it all anyway. 

He leaves him chatting to the cashier about AAA and if there’s Uber in town and heads outside. He chugs the first bottle of water, squinting in the neon lights of the forecourt. A girl in the back seat of a silver Prius gawks at him out of the window. The second bottle goes over his head, the water cool as it slides over his overheated face and neck. It drips off his chin and he has to bend over so it doesn’t soak his clothes. 

When he opens his eyes, Harry’s standing in front of him looking mildly disbelieving. Niall blinks the last of the water out of his eyes and straightens up. 

“LA is about two hours from here,” Harry tells him, his voice flat. “I can buy petrol here and head back to the car and then pick you up. I’ll make sure to stick to the proper motorway the whole way.”

Niall blinks at him. It’s the first time he’s looked at him properly since the argument on the road -- if you could call it an argument, Niall just called Harry a dickhead a lot and stormed off -- and Niall can see how wrecked he looks. His face is smeared with dirt and sweat, his shirt stretched and dirty, the material discoloured from where he’s sweated through it. His hair is sticking up in all directions. His eyes look red, the shadows below them deep. 

“We can stay the night,” Niall finds himself saying, his eyes raking over Harry’s worn expression. He watches as Harry’s shoulders slump in relief. “Head out early tomorrow morning. I just want to get something to eat and pass out now.”

Harry nods in agreement. Niall stares at him. There’s a flicker of something in Harry’s eyes but he blinks and turns away, finally taking a slug of his water. 

And then after a few moments of silence between them. “Thank you.”

Barstow is nearly as chaotic as Vegas compared to the desolate ghost towns they had passed on their way down Route 66. The signs hang out over the main roads into the town -- Best Western, IHOP, McDonalds -- all of them neon and bright. 

Niall reads them all, his brain in a fuzz. He’s pretty sure he has sun stroke. It feels a little surreal walking into town with Harry at his elbow, both of them radiating heat. 

Harry’s drawn to the vintage pick-up truck in the carpark like a fly to a flame. Niall watches him go with a sinking in his stomach. He curls his fingers into a fist, closes his eyes against the urge to just collapse onto the footpath then and there. 

“Harry,” Niall says, his voice going quiet and flat. Harry glances at him guiltily. 

“We may as well,” he says with a shrug, his face going soft like it’ll make Niall give in easier. 

The motel claims to be famous -- _the best sleep on 66_. 

“I know it’s no Wynn…” Harry trails off and then shrugs.

The motel wall is covered in a mural mapping the route and Harry stares longingly at it. Above him, the neon light flickers on and the side of Harry’s face is mottled magenta. 

Niall glares at him. “Will you just fucking make a decision.”

Harry frowns, his face hardly hiding how irritated he is too. “Fine,” he snaps. “We’re going to stay here.”

Niall makes a show of rolling his eyes to piss him off but he only gets a lick of satisfaction when Harry narrows his eyes at him. It’s hardly worth it.

He’s all smiles and charm when they cram into the tiny motel foyer. Niall hangs back, doesn’t protest when Harry only books one room. The hotel is a tourist trap -- licence plates, beer mats, all sorts of kitsch signs hanging over every spot of wall space. The woman behind the counter smiles at them, her eyebrows raising when she glances between them. 

He knows they look ridiculous -- dirty and damp, not a piece of luggage between them, Harry like Guccio Gucci threw up on him. 

Niall curves his shoulder closer to the doorjamb and tries not to be more awkward looking. He fights to keep his expression impassive. 

The room is outside, Harry leading him down a narrow path with doors leading into small, self-contained rooms. 

“Jesus Christ,” Niall mutters when Harry opens the door to their room. The bed is _round_ and covered in a gaudy floral blanket that’s seen better days. An ancient television set is sitting on a sideboard propped up against the wall opposite the bed, it’s glass front bulbous and the other half of the room is set out like a little kitchen pressed flat against the wall. 

Harry barks out a laugh, walking over to collapse onto the middle of the bed. It’s huge, the width of it taking up most of the room. 

“All we’re missing is a mirror in the ceiling,” Harry says, sounding pleased with himself. 

“It’s a fucking shithole,” Niall mutters, glancing at the lurid bedspread. The colour scheme is a dirty mustard colour, everything faded like it’s been twenty years since it’s seen a lick of paint. When Niall lies down, his feet hanging off the curved side of the bed, he sees that, _thank christ_ , there’s no mirror.

Harry grins, holds an arm out. “It’s such a lovely place --” he sings, his voice raspy from dehydration. His fingertips skim over the sunburn on Niall’s cheekbone. “Such a lovely face.”

Niall wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all but there’s still a twinge of annoyance in his gut. Harry’s smiling, his eyes roaming over Niall’s face. Harry gets out of everything with that smile on his face. It only grows wider the longer Niall stares at it. 

Niall ducks away from Harry abruptly, sitting up on the bed. “Alright, Don. Don’t quit your day job.”

Harry gives him an indulgent smile. As if the reference is just for him. They used to do it back in the band, the pair of them going down a black hole of 70s guitars and riffs and harmonies. The rest didn’t like their music choices and left them to it. 

Niall loved it. It was something for just the two of them. Something that bonded them instantly when they were thrown together at sixteen and didn’t know how to make head nor tail of each other yet. 

He leaves Harry in the bed and goes for a piss, the bathroom a cramped little room just beside the main door. He takes a few breaths. Tries to catch himself. It feels like he’s in a little muffled bubble, half underwater, his ears ringing. 

It’s nearly like coming off stage, in those brief moments of deafness straight after a show.

Niall’s face is on fire. The skin on his forehead tight. He presses it against the cool mirror for a moment, the lightbulb above his head buzzing. 

They need to talk about it. He’s spent all day avoiding actually talking to Harry about anything that matters and this is where it’s got him. 

Harry’s standing by the TV when Niall goes out into the bedroom, his shoulders stooped as he reads his phone that’s plugged into the wall. 

Niall’s own phone feels heavier in his pocket. He still hasn’t looked at it, anxiety twisting in his gut every time he thinks of it. 

“Everything alright?” Niall asks. Harry’s shoulders jerk and he looks around, an expression like he’s been caught out on his face. Niall stares at him, not really wanting to know who has been in contact with him.

Niall swallows down the panic welling in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I was looking up places to eat.”

Niall nods, running his hands through his hair again. He lets Harry get away with the lie, too anxious to call him out on it. 

They end up not going very far, finding a taco place just round the corner. Niall’s glad they don’t have another fight about it. Niall wants something greasy and then to sleep it all off. Fighting with Harry has unsettled him -- even if it was just over fucking petrol. 

“I’ll get it,” Niall murmurs, after Harry’s placed his order. The counter is modern, the signage bright and glaring and he can see the kitchen behind the cashiers. It’s jarring when he turns to the rest of the restaurant, the decor unchanged from the ‘70s, Niall suspects. 

Harry slinks off towards the corner, a large yellow cactus painted onto the wall behind his head so he doesn’t really look that inconspicuous. The booth is lined with vinyl and Niall groans, sliding in and feeling his legs stick to it. The bench is about an inch too short to be comfortable, the grotty plastic sticking directly into his shoulder blades. He pushes the tray towards Harry, the food looking vaguely unappetising. 

“Are you going to huff all evening?” Harry asks, dividing the fries between them. Niall scowls down at his meal, fighting the urge to take the chips off him altogether. “I’m sorry I fucked up, alright?”

“It’s fine,” Niall retorts. “It’s just petrol. I’ll get over it.”

Harry snorts and he stuffs a chip into his mouth. “Well, it looks like you’re trying really hard to get over it there.”

“I’m eating,” Niall says, defensively. 

“Come on,” Harry cajoles. “I haven’t seen you in ages, let’s not waste it being annoyed with each other.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” Niall mutters.

Niall looks away from him, hating how he sounds so bitter. He unclenches his fingers, feeling how sticky his palm is from sweat. His thighs have stuck to the vinyl under him again and he feels clammy, too hot.

It’s noisy around them, people chattering to each other until it all blends into white noise. 

Harry’s face goes carefully blank but Niall can see angry heat in his eyes. “I don’t know why I get all the blame.” A piece of fish falls out of his taco and lands on the paper place setting with a splat. “You weren’t exactly knocking down my door to talk to me either.”

Niall grits his teeth so hard they hurt. Harry stares at him, both of them knowing that Niall’s been caught out. “Fuck off,” Niall snaps, wounded. 

Harry’s eyebrows finally rise and Niall feels another roll of irritation. He lifts his taco, the shell breaking under his tight grip and shoves it into his mouth. 

It seems like it takes an age to chew it, his mouth full. Harry’s staring at him with thinly disguised disgust. 

“I get it,” he says, when Niall’s mouth is otherwise occupied and he can’t interrupt him. “People had warned me about this. Said it would happen, but I was sure they were wrong. Especially didn’t expect it from you.”

Niall chews, raises an eyebrow at him. 

Harry glares, his fingers crushing his own taco into bits. “You’re jealous.”

Niall splutters, nearly chokes on his food. Harry’s eyes widen in alarm and he stands up, reaching across the table to thump at Niall’s back. 

Niall fights him off, shoving him back down and swallows his mouthful. Something sharp digs at his windpipe and he sucks a bellyfull of water through his straw to dislodge it. 

The people next to them glance over, their eyes narrowed and Niall ducks his head, lowers his voice. “I’m not fucking jealous.”

Harry raises an eyebrow and Niall really wishes he’d stop doing that. He has a smear of salsa in the corner of his lip. Niall licks his own lips unconsciously. Harry’s eyes follow him but he still looks pissed off. 

Fine. He's a little bit jealous. 

Harry’s just ticked off a few of his lifetime goals in the same week and all Niall has to show for it is a plastic tiara and a hangover. His own album is lying in an email attachment somewhere, lacking a distinct ‘sound’ apparently and Harry’s been dueting with Stevie fucking Nicks. 

The back of his throat stings and he takes another sip of his drink. 

Harry sniffs, his face drooping into a frown. “I work bloody hard, I don’t know why people think --”

“I know that,” Niall interrupts him. “I _know_.”

Harry looks mollified for a moment and then even more confused. “So then, what’s the fucking problem?”

Niall frowns. “I didn’t miss you.” Underneath the table, Harry’s foot jerks -- maybe from shock -- and nudges up against Niall’s. Niall pushes back against it. “It’s strange. All this time away from everyone. I’ve seen the others but not you. And I don’t mean that in a fuck-you way.”

Harry snorts, looks down so some of his hair falls over his forehead. 

“Truth is, I hardly miss you at all.” Niall blinks, looks at the cactus over Harry’s shoulder. “I’ve been busy. I’ve been having fun. It made me think that maybe all my feelings for you were all made up. Like I was just feeling them because we spent so much time together. It was some sort of infatuation because we were in this bubble.”

Niall stops. Runs his tongue over his teeth. Harry’d kissed him today. He’s felt Harry’s mouth with the tongue he’s running over his lips. 

With a lurch in the gut, Niall remembers Harry pressed up against him last night, remembers clothes being pulled and them tumbling onto the floor. He remembers the way Harry’s breath ghosted up his jaw, his mouth on his neck, teeth on his collarbone. 

“Niall,” Harry says quietly, his foot pressing against Niall’s ankle to remind him he’s still there. 

Niall blinks back to the present. The lights are washing Harry’s face out more, his skin pink and white splotches, the way his stubble is too heavy over his lip and sparse everywhere else. 

“But that’s not true,” Niall chances a glance at Harry’s expression, sees how open it is. How he’s really listening to him. “I pulled myself away on purpose. I didn’t phone you, didn’t keep track of all the different email addresses you’ve been using. I tried to just put a lid on it, you know?”

Harry’s eyes have gone wide but he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Niall’s face. Niall wonders if Harry did the same. 

Niall looks at the cactus again. There’s a stain just to the right of Harry’s ear, like someone threw something from their tray at it and it never washed off properly. 

“And it worked. For a really long time,” Niall murmurs. He has no idea why he’s saying all this. “But seeing you last night. Seeing you do so well. I _do_ miss you. I miss standing beside you on stage, I miss laughing with you during interviews. I miss every quiet moment when we were recording and I knew we were doing the right thing because you made sure everything sounded fucking amazing. Even the last-- especially the last album.”

Harry frowns, his food forgotten on the paper sheet at the bottom of the tray. Grease seeps into it, nearly transparent. Harry’s fingers are curved as if he’s still holding the taco. 

“That wasn’t just me,” Harry mutters, his face turned down. “That was you and the other boys. It wasn’t just me.”

Niall swallows, feels a little sick. “It just seemed a lot easier.”

Harry smiles softly and his ankle knocks against Niall’s again. “It’s not that that was easy. It’s that maybe this means more. You’re nervous. And good! It means you care about the music you’re making.”

“You just went out and did whatever you wanted,” Niall mutters, thinking back to sitting in his car and listening to the end of the album. It had been getting dark, the sun setting behind the trees that enclosed his new house.

“And what’s stopping you doing the same?” Harry asks and it’s so simple that Niall has to look up at him. Harry shrugs, like it’s no big deal and folds a handful of fries into his mouth. “Just write what you want,” he says through them. “Release what you want. It’s not like you need the money. Do what you _want_.”

Niall bites his tongue on saying telling him that the thing he wants most is Harry.

“That’s what I am doing,” Niall starts but Harry shakes his head, his hand coming down to land on top of Niall’s on the greasy table. Niall stares at it, his fingers itching to hold it properly. 

“You’re worrying. Go and scrap all the songs that don’t sound right. The ones that deep down you know aren’t you or don’t say what you want to say. Keep the ones that do.”

“What if people don’t want to hear what I have to say?” Niall asks, thinking of the scraps of paper he hasn’t shown anyone yet, the notebook lying back in London. 

Harry gives him another oddly weighted stare. It’s nearly uncomfortable, like Harry’s undressing him right here in a 70s themed taco restaurant. 

“I miss you, too,” Harry says abruptly. “But not when I was recording or filming or anything like that.”

Niall feels his breath catch. Harry’s two feet hook around Niall’s one ankle, tugging it between them as if it’s as good as a hug. It’s what they’re used too -- touches under tables or hands on each other’s backs when the camera is pointed the other way. 

“But when anything big happened or anything exciting, I missed being able to turn round and see you there, just as excited for me. I took that for granted. How nice it was to have someone _always_ in your corner, happy to hear a new song or listen to what happened last night or even just sit with quietly when it all got a little too much.”

“You have plenty of people in your corner,” Niall points out. 

“Yeah but I wanted you.”

Harry looks so earnest that Niall nods, ducks his gaze because it’s too hard to look at him like that. 

“I mean, do you know how hard it was not to tell anyone about having Stevie Nicks on stage?” Harry asks, his voice dipped low and awed. “Everyone was freaking out and all I could think about was how much I wanted to tell _you_.”

Niall feels himself smile. “It’s going to take me a few more weeks to get over that one.”

Harry laughs, his head tipping back. He pats at Niall’s hand, gives him a small, quiet smile. “I’ll introduce you. We’re best friends now, you know?”

It’s the same smile Niall remembers from last night. The neon light streaming through the ceiling-high glass windows. Las Vegas was awake below them, the city sprawled out in black silhouettes and flickering, flashing lights. 

Harry had dropped the plastic crown onto his head, pulled him in with a hand on his hip and the other coming up to cup his jaw. 

His smile had been quietly smug and Niall could see all the want he felt reflected back at him.

They’d kissed up against the window, Niall’s head swimming with the sensation they’d fall right through. He’d been sure that Harry would keep hold of him, though, the pair only separating to breathe harshly against each other before going back at it.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Niall says, quietly. Harry smiles at him, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling. His mouth turns up in a pleased smirk. 

Harry’s fingers tangle with his again on the short walk back. The sky is properly dark now, the breeze filtering between them chilly. Niall keeps close to Harry’s side as they walk past the buzzing neon sign towards their room. 

It's silent when they close the door on the noise of the road outside. Harry glances at him and then away quickly. He’s back to looking tired and washed out in the low light of the lamp beside the TV. He stretches, his shirt riding up his back. 

Harry turns, blinks at him slowly. Niall looks away. 

“I’m going to shower,” Niall says, half to get away from the stiltedness in the room and half because his hair feels like it’s going to crawl off his head. 

Harry gives a jerky nod, already stooped over his phone again. 

The shower has shit water pressure but the water feels nice as it sluices over his body. Niall presses his stinging face into it, his palms flat against the tiled wall. He pushes his thumbs into the grout, feels the edge of the tile against his fingertips. 

It seems inevitable that something is going to happen, anticipation building in his gut as he thinks of Harry outside the door. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks. His nail scrapes against the rough grout making him shudder. 

It’s either going to fix it or fuck it up even more. Either way, he knows they’re going to do it anyway. 

He takes extra time washing, stalling for time. He swipes soap under his armpits, presses his fingers between his legs. He cups his balls, imagines Harry in the weight of his hand. 

He gets out on shaky legs, the steam making the small bathroom stifling hot. He wipes the condensation off the mirror and stares at his red face for a moment, trying to arrange his expression into something other than bewildered. 

Harry’s perched on the edge of the bed when Niall emerges. He looks up when Niall opens the door, his eyes dark. 

Niall swallows, walks towards him. He hasn’t turned on the tv, hasn’t put on music. It feels too quiet with just the sound of both of them breathing. 

Harry reaches up a hand and Niall feels sluggish, letting him grip the tip of his fingertips. 

Harry tugs him closer. His eyes are very wide and Niall stares back, stepping in between his splayed knees. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, his hand pressing flat against the front of Niall’s stomach. He’s breathing hard and it’s more obvious with Harry’s hand there to see how much air he’s taking into his stomach to shallowly blow it all back out again. 

Harry’s hand slides down, his fingers slipping into the roll of the towel. He lifts his gaze, as if to check with Niall. 

“Yeah,” Niall murmurs, already feeling exposed and turned on in front of him. Harry’s mouth turns up, his fingers pulling the towel away from his waist so it falls to Niall’s feet. 

“I don’t like fighting,” Harry says, his voice low. He’s staring at Niall’s chest directly in front of him and Niall lifts a hand to settle on Harry’s shoulder. He can feel the heat rising off him through his shirt. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

“Me neither,” Niall says, pushing his hand up over Harry’s jaw so he can settle the pads of his fingers against Harry’s skull behind his ear. He urges Harry’s gaze up, Harry’s head falling back until Niall can see the swallow of his throat, the thump of his pulse on his taut neck. 

Harry’s eyelids flutter and Niall presses his thumb to the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

“Do you not want a shower?” Niall asks him, his thumb moving to press into the stubble on his cheek. He wants to press everywhere. Wants to feel all of Harry. 

Harry blinks at him, his eyelashes slow to separate. “I want you.”

Niall makes a sound without meaning to and Harry’s mouth turns into a smirk. His palm sweeps down Niall’s side, past his waist and settles just before his thigh, his thumb pressing into his hip bone. His hand is so close to Niall’s dick but Harry doesn't go near it -- acts as if Niall isn’t already fattening up. 

“Harry,” Niall murmurs, just a little desperately. Harry raises his eyebrows, his mouth opening so he can lick across his bottom lip. Niall watches him, heat rising up through his gut and into his chest. He leans forward, brushes his thumb across Harry’s mouth to feel how wet and shiny it looks. 

One of Harry’s hands trails lower, skimming lightly over the hair on Niall’s thighs, tickles at the side of his knee before he cups his palm around the back of it. Niall shifts his weight, Harry’s touch light as he urges his knee up and Niall understands what he’s trying to do. 

Harry’s trousers feel strange below Niall’s bare thighs as he climbs into his lap. Harry grins, looking pleased with himself again. He leaves a hand on Niall’s thigh to steady him, his palm warm and starting to sweat against the crease of Niall’s thigh and the other slides around to press at the small of his back. 

He’s left a bit of room between him and Harry, his arse perched near Harry’s knees. Harry’s still ignoring how hard he is, Niall’s dick bobbing slightly between them. Harry smiles again, his face dark as he presses against Niall’s back. Niall slides forward an inch, shivering at the feel of his trousers. He feels far more exposed like this, happy that no one is standing behind him to see how stretched apart he is. 

Harry’s kiss is entirely unexpected. Niall gasps into it, his hand clutching at Harry’s shoulder. He sinks forward, forgetting about the space between them entirely, groaning as his dick presses into the warm cotton of Harry’s shirt. 

Harry grunts into his mouth, pulling him closer. Niall’s legs spread, a slow burn moving through his knees at how tight he’s squeezing them. Harry’s thighs feel sturdy below him as Niall slides further into his lap. Harry’s hand skims up his spine, bending Niall closer to him as the kiss deepens, their tongues and teeth moving over each other's lips. 

Harry’s fingertips fitting into the cleft of Niall’s arse makes him pull away, gasping harshly into Harry’s jaw. He feels nearly delirious with it -- having Harry here where he wants him. 

“Oh,” he breathes shakily. Niall’s entire body is trembling. “Harry. We -- don’t-- we don’t--”

Harry’s mouth is hot against the hinge of his jaw, kisses open-mouthed down below his ear and then drops to his shoulder. 

Harry tips Niall back to mouth along his collarbone. Niall gasps for breath, his fingers tangling in the collar of Harry’s t-shirt so he doesn’t fall right through the gap between Harry’s knees. He slides a little, Harry’s hand at his arse keeping him from falling.

“We don’t have lube,” Niall finally manages to get out, his brain short circuiting as Harry licks around his nipple. He wants to arch up into his mouth more, wants to rut down into his fingers that are still hooked -- but unmoving -- between his cheeks, wants to press his dick into the soft material of Harry’s shirt. 

“Ssh,” Harry hushes him, straightening back up so he can kiss at Niall’s mouth again. “I’m not gonna.”

Harry’s fingers slide, one of them brushing drily over his hole. Niall jerks, his knees squeezing into Harry’s waist. Niall’s never been more disappointed that they don’t have their luggage. 

Harry laughs -- a rumble in his chest -- and spreads his knees, making Niall spread open wider.

“Fuck,” Niall breathes, closing his eyes. Harry’s hand feels huge as he teases at his perineum before it sweeps back up to the bottom of his spine, the one on his thigh flexing and squeezing the muscle again. Niall rolls his hips, finally _finally_ feels how Harry’s just as hard as he is. 

His eyes are still closed when fingers bump against his bottom lip. Niall opens his mouth, lets Harry press his fingertips to Niall’s wet tongue. 

“Niall,” Harry breathes and Niall lets his eyes flutter open. Harry’s looking up at him darkly, his eyes trained to where his index and middle finger are disappearing into Niall’s mouth. Niall opens his mouth wider, lets them in until Niall can roll his tongue around the first knuckle, push them apart in his mouth to get them nice and wet. 

Harry groans, his hips jerking up minutely. “Fuck, Niall. Your mouth.”

Niall hums, laving at the ridges of Harry’s fingertips until salvia wells at the corner of his mouth and drips onto his chin. Harry pushes his fingers in further, twists them. It makes Niall’s gag reflex kick in a little, his throat closing up. 

Harry pulls his hand away, groaning into a kiss instead. Niall kisses him back, a hand sinking into his hair to clutch Harry closer. 

Harry’s wet fingertips bump against his hip and then they’re under Niall, pressing wetly up against his hole. 

It’s still not lube but it’s enough to make Niall gasp, the tips of Harry’s fingertips sliding over him. 

“I wish I could fuck you,” Harry says, his eyes lifting to meet Niall’s gaze. Niall hums in agreement, sliding his hands down Harry’s hot neck to pull at his collar. He wishes that too. 

“Next --” he starts to say. _Next time_. 

Harry's eyes flash, his tongue wetting across his bottom lip. 

Niall opens his mouth, suddenly unsure of what to say. “You’re still dressed,” he manages, changing the topic. He’s not sure if there’s a next time and it lights a fire under him, makes him clutch Harry closer. 

He has to remember this one. 

Harry grins at him, his teeth flashing. “And you aren’t.”

Niall’s fingers shake as he takes the liberty to pull the t-shirt over Harry’s head. Harry huffs out a breath, his fingertips still rubbing over Niall’s hole. 

“Trousers, too,” Niall pants, leaning up on his knees as if he’s making enough room so Harry can wriggle out of his pastel trousers. He doesn’t want to have to get up -- he likes sitting here with Harry’s hands all over him but he’s starting to get restless and impatient. 

Harry snorts, falling back onto the mattress. Niall sits astride his thighs for a moment to catch his breath before Harry reaches for him, his hand on Niall’s ribs to bring him down to his level. Niall falls forward, catching Harry’s gaze for a long moment. 

They kiss, Niall leaning more of his weight on Harry’s stomach. He’s up far too high, his knees near Harry’s armpits and it’s awkward, reaching behind him to fiddle with the expensive buttons Harry has instead of a zipper. 

Harry takes the opportune moment to finally wrap his hand around Niall’s dick, his thumb sweeping over where he’s starting to get wet. He gives him a few strokes, his thumb pressing up below the head of his dick before he rolls them, kissing his way down Niall’s neck and then he’s sliding onto the floor, hands at his own waistband. 

“Thank god,” Niall tells him, easing his legs down onto the mattress. The duvet is scratchy below his sweaty back but it’s nice to lie flat and stretch out. “Thought you’d never get the hint.”

Harry snorts. He’s flushed, red creeping down his chest. He looks debauched, Niall’s eyes straining as he fights to keep from just looking up at the ceiling. Harry’s hair falls over his forehead, his knees splayed as he undoes the buttons of his trousers and then his dick is spilling out of the gap, already red and wet.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Niall breathes, head thumping back on the mattress as he collapses back. Harry snuffles a laugh into the side of Niall’s knee, his hand hooking around his ankle to pull him to the edge of the bed. 

“Come on, c’mere,” Harry murmurs, his lips brushing against the hair on Niall’s leg. “I want you here for me.”

Niall goes with him, his foot falling over the side of the bed as Harry pushes one of his knees back on the mattress, Niall’s thigh muscles are beginning to strain. Niall can’t find it in him to care, his own hand going to hook round his knee to keep himself stretched wide. 

The first swipe of his tongue still comes as a shock -- mostly because Harry licks at his thigh, his tongue moving across the smooth skin on the inside of his leg. His nose bumps at Niall’s balls, Harry’s mouth searching across his skin for a few moments -- teasing -- before he pushes his palm against the underside of Niall’s thigh and licks over his hole. 

“Harry,” Niall can’t stop saying his name. He moans as Harry licks at him again, his tongue catching on his rim. He’s glad now that he took a few extra moments in the shower. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters, his cock aching. 

His fingers slip on the back of his knee, his leg pulled up out of the way. His other hand slides over his stomach, fingers pressing the head of his dick against his abdomen. 

Harry eats him out messily, his tongue hardly stopping. Spit dribbles down into the crevice of his arse, Niall jerking with every twist of Harry’s tongue. “Harry --” Niall whines, dropping his hand between his legs. His fingertips graze Harry’s sweaty forehead before they slide into his hair. 

Harry groans, his mouth opening wide. Niall can feel just the hint of stubble scratching against his arse cheek before Harry sucks another kiss against his hole. 

Niall tugs on his hair, Harry’s mouth going slack. Niall can feel him panting, his shoulder heaving before he pulls away, his mouth pink and wet. He’s got a hand cupped over his own dick, the trousers still somehow mostly on but open and gaping at the waist. 

Niall wants to touch. He wants to press his mouth to every spot of his skin. Wants to peel the trousers away to feel the weight of his dick against his tongue. 

“C’mere,” Niall says, breath catching in his throat. 

“Okay,” Harry says, nearly dazed. He stands up, his trousers slipping a bit down his hips. “Okay, okay.”

Niall lifts a hand up, reaching. Harry stares at him for a moment, his hand pushing his trousers so they slide the rest of the way down his thighs. Niall stares at him, the tension in his thighs, the wet head of his dick disappearing into his fist. On another day, he’d be happy to just watch, but not now. Not today when he has him in front of him like this.

He waves his hand impatiently and Harry leans onto the bed, one knee on the mattress between Niall’s splayed legs. Harry grunts, tips himself forward. “Fuck,” he growls into Niall’s ear, his teeth scraping over his cheek. 

Niall turns into it, kisses him, both of them suddenly frantic with it. Harry’s long against him, every inch of skin pressed against Niall’s, pressing him into the mattress. Niall slides his hand down to his hip, drags him closer. 

Harry snuffles a laugh into his shoulder, his breath warm, and then he’s licking up the tendon in Niall’s neck.

“What?” Niall asks, feeling himself start to grin too. 

Harry laughs louder, pulls back just enough so Niall can see his cheeky expression. “We didn’t even get this far last night,” he says, ducking his face to suck a spot on Niall’s shoulder. 

Niall snorts, rolls his hips to where he can feel Harry hard against his tummy. “Too much excitement yesterday.”

Harry catches his mouth in another kiss, grinding down against him with purpose. He doesn’t say anything, chasing Niall’s mouth any time they break apart. 

“You know, we can’t get it annulled now,” Niall says, laughing at the expression on Harry’s face. 

“Will you shut up,” he murmurs, clutching him close until they can grind against each other.

It’s messy. Not Niall’s finest work, but it’s too hot in the room, sweat gathering behind his knees, in the spaces where they’re pressed together. 

Harry wraps a hand around them both, his palm licked until it’s nearly slick. Niall’s so wet it nearly doesn’t matter, drips of precome easing each stroke.

Niall pats at Harry’s hand, their fingers interlocking until both of them are pulling. Harry’s free hand slides over Niall’s hip, his fingertips dragging across where Niall’s hole is still damp. Niall sets his teeth to Harry’s shoulder, pants against his slick skin. 

“Fuck,” Harry’s swearing quietly into his ear, his voice gone breathy. Niall’s not even sure he realises he’s doing it. Saying it all out loud. “Oh, fucking-- Niall-- fuck. I love--”

Harry comes first, his shoulder jerking back when Niall bites at the tendon there. He gasps, his eyes flying open and his fist closing impossibly tighter around Niall’s cock. Spunk flecks up Niall’s belly but mostly gathers in his fingers. Harry’s gone loose as he gasps against Niall’s temple. 

Niall reaches down, cradles his own balls. Harry’s heavy beside him, his skin hot and slippery. Niall presses into it, ruts into the crease of his thigh where he’s sweaty. Harry groans, lifting a hand to cradle Niall’s jaw. He pulls him back, his eyes wide and glassy and dark and Niall stares at him, his breath catching as he comes over his hip. 

_Love_.

Niall blinks, the roaring in his ears too loud to process with his eyes open. In the dark everything feels more sensitive and he shivers, Harry’s hand sweeping up his side and over his ribs. 

It’s too warm to really spoon together, the thin sheet rumpled below them. Harry uses his t-shirt to clean the crease of his thigh, rubs it over Niall’s still heaving belly. 

They kiss slowly when the light goes off, Harry rolling into Niall’s space. Niall hears the pitiful sound he makes at the back of his throat, his hand anchoring them together at Harry’s hip. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

*

The bed is empty when Niall wakes up, the sheets rumpled when Niall presses his face into the other pillow. It smells of Harry and of sweat. Niall hums to himself, pressing into the coolness of it for a moment. 

**Gone for the car, H x**

Harry’s stuck the note to the TV but when Niall unlocks his phone, he sees that he’s got a string of messages from him too, ending with **Outside in ten.**

He has a string of other messages from varying people that he doesn’t want to see in his inbox ever so he closes his phone and heads for the shower. The water pressure is still as shit but it feels nice to stand under the lukewarm water. It’s decidedly less nice to pull on the same clothes from yesterday but he tries not to think about it and makes his way outside. 

Harry meets him by the car with croissants and orange juice. He’s changed -- Niall spares a thought to whoever he flashed by changing on the side of the road -- and he looks younger in a plain white t-shirt that gapes a bit around the collar and a pair of battered jeans. He’s wearing a stupid neck scarf, tied in a knot at the base of his throat and Niall doesn’t know how he’s not roasting in it. 

Harry smiles at him, his eyes obscured by his round black sunglasses and hands him breakfast. 

“You know how to treat a guy, Styles,” Niall jokes, pulling a chunk of the croissant off to stuff in his mouth. It’s slightly stale and Harry laughs at his expression. 

“Only the best for my one and only.”

Niall chucks the rest of the croissant at him and heads towards the back of the car. Harry grins, disappearing from view for a moment as he stoops to pick up the croissant. 

Niall pops the boot, his fingers smudging grease on the shiny chrome button. Harry’s bag is open, his clothes spilling out over the tiny boot of the car. 

“You need to keep your strength up,” Harry says, walking around the end of the car to join him. Niall turns to him and gets a quick kiss for his trouble. They’re shielded slightly from the motel by the lid of the boot but behind them, the road is getting steadily busy with traffic.

“Harry,” Niall says, warningly. It feels a bit reckless to be doing this out in the open but he can’t help himself from pressing in for another quick kiss. Harry laughs, his hand settling warm on his hip for a moment before he’s gone again. 

Niall ducks down into the boot to hide how much he’s grinning and grabs the first clean-ish shirt spilling out from Harry’s bag to pull over his head. It’s cliche -- that spring to his step after a good fuck -- but he can’t help the buoyant feeling, his grin hard to wipe off his face. 

Harry wolf whistles when he slams the boot shut. “Fuck off,” Niall says without any heat, settling his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The car is hot, despite it not being lunchtime yet. Niall tries not to burn himself on the black leather.

Harry faffs about for another few minutes, Niall’s temperature rising. The orange juice is tart but cold so he chugs half the bottle until the back of his throat feels gummy. 

This could be them all the time. Trips together -- holidays, tour. Niall could be sitting in the drive waiting for Harry to hurry up so they can go for dinner, groceries, drive up to see Harry’s mum. 

It burns in Niall’s chest. That content feeling that comes along with all those scenarios. How _settled_ it would be. 

Harry drops into his seat with a huff of warm air. He grins at Niall, scrolling through his phone for a few more moments before he starts up the car. Niall watches the fall of his hair over his forehead, the reflection of his phone in his sunglasses. 

Harry’s smiling too, effortless and content. 

“Let’s hit the road,” Harry says, adopting a funny voice. He pulls out, the breeze nice around Niall’s hairline. 

Niall snorts as the Rolling Stones start up again. Harry humming along. He glances sideways, sees Harry peering over the rims of his Ray Bans. 

This time, Niall finds it easy to sing along. 

*

They stop a few miles out, not even halfway through the album. Harry pulls over in a cloud of dust and steps out with a grin on his face. 

The bottle forest is close to the road and absolutely deserted. Harry keeps grinning as if it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. 

“Look,” Niall says, following Harry through the maze of bottles. They tinkle together in the wind, not entirely unpleasantly. It sounds like they’re in a wind chime factory. 

“Yes?” Harry asks, glancing at him over his shoulder. He’s running his fingers over the bottles at elbow height. Niall doesn’t dare touch, scared that he’d somehow topple them all. 

“Shouldn’t we maybe talk about -- y’know --?”

Harry turns so he’s walking backwards. “Talk about what?”

Niall’s gut clenches, reaching out to still him. “You’ll send the place crashing down.”

Harry snorts, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Oh, ye of little faith.” And then he slings an arm around Niall.

There’s no one else there so Niall doesn’t mind, sinking into his side as they try and walk through the trees of bottles together. He likes being this close to him, the phantom feeling of sleeping close still lingering. 

“Talk about what?” Harry prompts, his hand squeezing around Niall’s shoulder. “How great I am in bed? Because, well. I think that’s a given.”

Niall laughs and shoves him out of the way. Harry staggers a bit but manages to catch himself before he falls into an elaborate three tier display of vintage Coca Cola bottles. 

“No,” Niall says, still laughing at the expression of panic on Harry’s face. “The fact that we got married?”

Harry stops short, his head ducking down. 

Niall takes a deep breath. “I know this is awkward. Like obviously I didn’t plan on getting arse-drunk and married but maybe it’s a good thing? A nice thing?”

Harry turns his head away and it’s hard to read his face with the sun behind him and half of it obscured by his sunglasses. He looks young again, one of his hands reaching up to scratch behind his ear. 

“Like it finally gave us a kick up the arse to get together properly,” Niall says. His gut feels tight. He’s never been this upfront before -- never with Harry. Sure, he’s told people that he’s liked them before, that easy way you can just smile and blame it on the drink, but this is different.

He’s never properly meant it before. 

“And we can look into getting it annulled or divorced or whatever you want” Niall finds himself saying, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “Start with a clean slate but -- but I think --”

He reaches forward, knocking a tall branch of dark royal blue bottles. They look like the colour of the sea. His fingertips brush Harry’s elbow and Harry jerks, his jaw clenching. 

Niall feels something unravel inside him. Maybe he’s not saying it right. 

“I _want_ to be with you,” Niall says, his voice ringing in his ears. He takes another deep breath. “Harry --”

Harry doesn’t look up and Niall feels a swell of humiliation. 

“If I’m barking up the wrong tree --” Niall starts. 

“We didn’t get married,” Harry whispers quietly. 

Niall jerks his head up. He could’ve imagined it but Harry looks so guilty that he knows he didn’t. 

“What?” Niall asks, his voice has gone an eery calm. Somewhere behind them, a car passes them on the road. 

Harry actually winces. 

“We didn’t get married. After you got sick in the club we went to get some air. They couldn’t marry us without a license. We ended up in IHOP because the chapel was right next door.”

Niall stares at him, his mind trying to catch up. All he can think about is the video, Harry’s smiling face and Niall’s laugh from behind the screen. 

Harry sounds miserable. “You said I had to get the Rooty Tooty --”

\--”because you’re fresh and fruity.” Niall finishes. He closes his eyes and he can see the fluorescent lights and how Harry had crammed him into a booth and ordered for the both of them. They’d both sat on the same side, their knees knocking together. Harry had gotten whipped cream on his chest, a glob of it sliding down over his swallows.

Niall had reached for it, scooping it up on his finger and then licked it off, Harry’s eyes on his mouth. 

Then Niall’d asked him back to his hotel room. 

Niall’s cheeks burn and he turns around, his shoulder knocking into the blue bottles. 

“Niall --” Harry starts, his fingers brushing the back of his bicep but Niall jerks out of it, the tree beside him swaying dangerously.

“Do you know how _embarrassing_ this is?” Niall snaps, throwing his words over his shoulder. He can’t look at him. He can’t believe he’s just spilled his guts to Harry and this is what his response is. 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Harry says, his voice rising just enough so Niall can hear him over the clinking orchestra of bottles. “We had fun. It was so nice to see you -- I didn’t --” 

“Didn’t what?” Niall spins on his heel to look at him. 

Harry shrugs, looking helpless. 

“It was just easier to let you go along with it. You would’ve just got onto the plane and we never would’ve had all that time yesterday. Last night --”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair and his face is a mix of guilt and confusion.

“Last night felt like we were finally being honest with each other --”

“Except you kept lying,” Niall fires back. “Fuck. Why didn’t you just tell me? I’ve --”

Niall snaps his mouth shut. He’s bared enough to Harry this morning, he doesn’t need to tell him anymore. Doesn’t need to tell how much it’s been playing on his mind. 

Harry pulls a face, his mouth turning down. “I wasn’t _lying_. I just didn’t want you to go so soon.”

Niall presses his fingers into his eyes. They sting but the darkness is nice for a moment or two. 

“Isn’t this a good thing?” Harry asks, letting out a little disbelieving laugh. “Think of what this would’ve done for our careers?”

Niall snorts. “I _have_ been.”

Harry looks a bit miserable when Niall opens his eyes. His shoulders are slumped, his mouth turned down. The sun beats down on them and Niall doesn’t think it matches Harry’s dour expression.

“You don’t think it would’ve ruined everything?” Harry asks, quiet. 

Niall can’t meet his eye. “I don’t think it would’ve ruined anything for _you._ ”

“ _Niall._ ” Harry’s voice sounds thready. 

He drops his sunglasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and Niall suspects that this is where the conversation ends. 

“I just want to go home.” 

Harry nods, his mouth still pressed into a thin line. There’s a family piling out of a minivan parked behind their car. They all gasp and surge forward towards the glass jungle and Niall keeps his head ducked, climbing into the passenger seat. 

Harry doesn’t put on his playlist. 

And they sit in silence the whole way back to Los Angeles. 

It’s fucking typical. Niall should be ecstatic that they aren’t actually married. He doesn’t have to go back to his manager with his tail between his legs, doesn’t have to explain to his mother, doesn’t have to face a barrage of questions about Harry fucking Styles everywhere he turns for the next six weeks, six months, six years. 

But --

He’s just shut himself off from the world all because Harry let him think they _were_ married. He let Harry drive him to the arse of nowhere, walked through the desert, finally gave into all those queasy thoughts he's spent the last year trying not to think anymore and fucked him in a dirty motel. 

And a tiny part of Niall _liked_ it. 

Loved it, even. 

Harry reaches for his hand as they filter through traffic. Niall lets him take it. 

“I shouldn’t have lied,” Harry says, his voice quiet as they linger in a tailback at some lights. He’s wearing his sunglasses and doesn’t look away from the Range Rover in front of them so Niall can’t see all of his expression. The bits he can see look morbidly sad. “Sometimes I just don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”

“We should be fucking married with a line like that,” Niall mutters. 

Harry lets out a bark of laughter, as if he’s shocked that Niall made a joke at all. He turns his head to look at him, all sunglasses and teeth. Niall rolls his eyes but gives his fingers a squeeze. 

By the time Harry’s pulling up the drive, their hands have gone sweaty, fingers still laced on Niall’s thigh. 

“Well,” Niall says, reaching for the door handle. He flexes his fingers, Harry lets go reluctantly. “Thanks for the lift, I guess.”

Harry laughs quietly, turning towards him. He pushes his sunglasses into his hair. The hang of the trees Niall’s planted along the side of the house dapples his face in shade and sunlight. 

“You’re really not angry with me?” he asks.

Niall sighs, his shoulders slumping. “No,” he answers honestly. He’s still a little miffed but he doesn’t think he could ever be properly angry at him. Harry’s watching him very closely. “Bring Stevie Nicks on our next date and I’ll think about letting you away with it.”

Harry breaks into a blinding smile and Niall can see that he’s relieved. They brush their mouths together, not really a kiss at all. It still makes Niall’s stomach twist. 

“I’ll see you later,” Niall tells him, climbing out of the car. 

His house feels cool when he steps over the threshold. Feels properly like home. 

It’s a bit bizarre how it feels like weeks and months since he’s been here. His trip with Harry stretching on until it feels like his entire brain has been taken up by it even though it was only the weekend. 

Niall slides his phone out of his back pocket as he walks through the house. The screen is dark and Niall stares at his reflection in it for a moment before he sets it on the varnished top of his Steinway. It doesn’t feel as daunting to read all the emails now. Not now that he knows there’s no actual marriage to defend but he leaves it anyway. 

He plays the melody that’s settled somewhere in the back of his mind, his hand moving up the keys to the middle. The fancy leather bench that came with the piano is a world apart from sharing a kitchen chair with wood rot in a diner in the middle of the desert. 

Niall smiles to himself and without hesitation, segues into the part Harry played.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Harry's car](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/35/BMW_507.jpg/1200px-BMW_507.jpg) and [suit](https://fashionista.com/.image/t_share/MTM5NTE5Njk2NTQ5NDU1MDEy/gucci20m20rs17200706jpg.jpg).


End file.
